


Love Like Fools

by dragon_with_a_teacup



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), First Kiss, Fluff, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Bus Ride (Good Omens), Post-Scene: The Ritz (Good Omens), Romance, Scene: The Bus Ride (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27233263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_with_a_teacup/pseuds/dragon_with_a_teacup
Summary: Aziraphale kisses him on the bus.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 167





	Love Like Fools

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Fools" by Lauren Aquilina

Aziraphale kisses him on the bus.

They’re halfway to London, and have spent the entire ride so far holding hands. Crowley has felt on the brink of falling asleep, but he can’t quite do so. Too much adrenaline, perhaps, or too many thoughts in his head. Still, he slumps down in the seat and leans against Aziraphale and tries to shut off his mind, to focus on Aziraphale’s fingers entwined with his.

“You can sleep, you know,” Aziraphale coaxes.

“Theoretically, yeah. Realistically? Nah.” Crowley yawns, but his leg has started bouncing. What will happen now? What does it mean, to choose their faces? What are they supposed to do?

“We’ll be fine. Rest, Crowley.”

He sits up and shakes his head. “I’d love to, but I think the idea that we might get arrested, tortured, and executed soon by our superiors is making me a little jumpy.”

Aziraphale is still and quiet, staring straight ahead. Crowley watches him, taking in his downy hair and pursed lips and solemn eyes.

“Worrying isn’t going to help.”

Crowley scoffs. “Oh, that changes things. Let me just switch off my worry, then, I’ll be right as rain.”

He crosses his arms and slinks down further into the seat. It’s uncomfortable, even for a decidedly reptilian spine, but he’s committed now. His knee continues bouncing, and he gnaws on his lower lip.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says again. His hand hesitates, then comes to rest on Crowley’s knee. He still is staring ahead. “We’re safe for the moment. I promise.”

“Temporary reprieve,” Crowley mutters. He’s imagining horrors without wanting to, seeing all the terrible weapons the demons will use on him, all the insults they will hurl. He sees the stark whiteness of Heaven too, the sharp violet of Gabriel’s eyes flashing with betrayal. If they aren’t careful, they won’t get out of this. It will be the last thing they’ll ever do.

“I don’t want to die,” he whispers, turmoil and terror building in his chest. “I don’t want you to die.”

Aziraphale exhales, the sound between a gasp and a sigh. His hand tightens on Crowley’s knee. Then, Aziraphale faces him.

Then, Aziraphale leans forward.

Then, Aziraphale kisses him.

_Oh_.

Crowley’s lips part of their own accord, sliding over the plush softness of Aziraphale’s mouth. The kiss is gentle, slow, and the most singularly devastating thing Crowley has ever experienced. His hand lifts to clutch at Aziraphale’s lapel, to hold the angel in place lest this moment shatter. If he can draw out this kiss, surely all will be well with the world.

But of course, the kiss does eventually end. Their lips part; they both sit back. Crowley lifts a hand to his mouth, marveling at the fact that he now knows what happens when an angel kisses him. He knows what it feels like.

“Oh,” he says.

Aziraphale smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yes, oh.” He takes Crowley’s hand again, faces the front of the bus, and resumes watching the miles drift by.

Crowley sits in a daze, and only once the doors open in Mayfair does he realize he hasn’t once thought of the danger they’re in since the kiss.

Clever, bastard angel.

— — —

The next afternoon, Crowley tucks his hands in his pockets, tilting his face up toward the sunlight. Aziraphale’s pace beside him is leisurely, and Crowley matches it. They have all the time in the world now, again.

The night before, prior to leaving and facing their trials in the guise of one another, they hadn’t spoken about this kiss. They had merely entered Crowley’s flat, climbed into bed together, and held on. Crowley doesn’t think Aziraphale slept, but instead clutched at Crowley all night, thinking. When Crowley had awoken, Aziraphale had known what to do.

And so they had swapped faces, parted ways, and faced the music.

Now, Aziraphale has suggested they go to the bookshop. He wants to see it restored, and since he’s left the Bentley in Mayfair, they decide to walk.

Aziraphale babbles on about nothing in particular, giddy with relief at their narrow escape. Crowley smiles at him and lets the soothing sound of his voice wash over him. But as he does, doubt starts to creep into his mind. There have been no further kisses, not since that one on the bus that turned Crowley inside out with longing for more. There have been nearly no touches, not since they climbed out of bed. There have been no soft words, only small talk and discussions of the confrontations with Above and Below.

Crowley can’t help but wonder what he did wrong.

Maybe Aziraphale is simply too excited by their new freedom to think about that right now. Maybe once he sees the bookshop, calms down, settles back into his usual life, he will remember the kiss, the embrace in bed. Maybe then they can get on with… whatever they were building up to.

But then a thought strikes him, a terrible thought that _aches_.

What if it was all just to calm Crowley down? What if it was just a clever distraction? What if Aziraphale didn’t mean any of it? What if it was comfort in a dark hour, but in the end, nothing but a ploy?

The hope that has blossomed like a flower in Crowley’s chest withers.

He is barren, fallow, rotted. His shoulders hunch, and misery floods his eyes, but he straightens, blinks away the moisture. There’s no point letting his feelings show; nothing will come of it. Aziraphale hasn’t caught up with him after all, and he probably never will. So. Moving on.

By the time they reach the bookshop, Crowley has plastered a facade of cheer back on his face. He steps inside the shop before Aziraphale, watching as the angel beams and sighs and moves to each shelf, ascertaining that all is as it was.

“There’s a few new books,” Crowley says, “courtesy of Adam. Looked like first editions, though.” In response to Aziraphale’s inquiring look, he nods toward the children’s book series.

“Oh!” Aziraphale darts over, examining them. “Bit cheeky of him, slipping these in. They’re lovely, though.”

He caresses the spine of one of them, and Crowley swallows back a longing noise. Turning away, he strides to the back of the shop and settles on the couch. Less than twenty-four hours ago, this place had been a smoldering ruin.

No, don’t think about that.

He snaps his fingers, a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape appearing on the table, already uncorked and ready. He takes a swig and curls in on himself. Toward the front of the shop, he can hear Aziraphale still bustling about.

He shouldn’t have come in here, he chastises himself. He should have made his excuses at the door and gone home, so he could have wallowed in his heartbreak in peace. How is he supposed to rail at himself for his stupidity with the angel right there?

He takes another drink.

Aziraphale appears at the end of the bookshelf. “There you are!”

“Here I am.” Crowley raises the wine in a mockery of a toast. “Sup?”

Something flickers in Aziraphale’s expression, and he looks, really looks at Crowley, who squirms under the scrutiny. He busies himself by taking another drink, so he no longer has to meet Aziraphale’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, dear,” Aziraphale says after Crowley sets the bottle back down ruefully. “I’ve been ignoring you.”

“Nah, it’s all right.”

Aziraphale frowns, as if he has just understood something. His gaze lingers on the wine bottle, a quarter empty now. “You were here, weren’t you? When it burned down? That’s why you were so upset when I found you.”

Crowley nods. It’s not why he’s upset, not anymore. The pain of seeing this place burn can no longer hold a candle, so to speak, to the pain of knowing Aziraphale doesn’t really want him.

“Oh, do come over here, dear,” Aziraphale says then, and Crowley doesn’t understand why. But while he doesn’t understand, of course he obeys. What else can he do? It’s Aziraphale, asking for Crowley.

He stands, swatting away the drink-induced dizziness with a quick miracle, and moves to stand before Aziraphale. “What is it?” he asks.

“I am such a fool, you know. I’ve been willfully blind for so long.”

Crowley shakes his head. “Course you’re not.”

“I have wasted so much time, and even now… now that I’m finally… resolved, I’m still not doing this right.”

“Doing what?” Crowley asks, smiling even though he’s bewildered. “Angel, whatever it is, it’s all right.”

He looks into Aziraphale’s eyes, and realizes—he _can_ do this. He can be friends—just friends—with Aziraphale for the next few millennia. After all, he _loves_ being friends with Aziraphale. They can try all the restaurants in Europe together, can visit Warlock and Adam and Anathema together, can debate the merits of certain works of literature late into the night together. And Crowley will love it. He can be content with that. He doesn’t need more. The traitorous seed of desire in his chest never has to sprout again. He won’t let it.

Just being here with Aziraphale will be enough. It _is_ enough.

“I should have done this centuries ago,” Aziraphale says.

“Done what?”

“I’m sorry.” Regret flashes in Aziraphale’s expression.

Crowley tilts his head. “What do you—?”

Before he can finish the question, however, Aziraphale reaches out. Takes Crowley’s face in his hands. Tilts his head. Presses their lips together.

Oh!

Crowley, you idiot, he thinks wildly. His fingers fumble for purchase on Aziraphale’s arms, shoulders, hips. You should have known, should have trusted him. He’s _Aziraphale_ , he’s wonderful and caring and brilliant. Of course he meant all this.

Aziraphale’s lips part to let out a soft moan.

Fuck, he loves this angel.

They break the kiss, and Aziraphale’s eyes are glistening. He grins and tugs Crowley closer and starts to whisper “dearest,” but Crowley isn’t here for conversation. He dives in for another kiss, and this one is shaped around breathless laughter and delighted tears.

Crowley vows never to tell Aziraphale about his momentary doubt. There’s no point; he sees where he went wrong. His insecurity was for nothing, after all. He trusts Aziraphale with everything. He’s all in.

So he presses himself closer into the embrace, knowing there will come a time for talking—for promises, vows, declarations of devotion.

For now, though, Crowley lets himself be held.


End file.
